This Page of Everlasting Depression
by Diluted Thoughts
Summary: Mikami Teru had never kept a journal.


Mikami Teru had never kept a journal.

But his mother _had_ kept a journal.

The makeshift journal had really been a thin, burgundy leather-bound planner. Mikami remembered the golden-colored letters that had once read "**DAILY PLANNER 1990**," and how the cheap paint had eventually faded to render the title "**D IL L N R 1 90**" instead. Despite the weathered look it had gained over the years, his mother continued using it—arbitrarily, perhaps, but using it nonetheless. When the extra sheets of note paper located at the back had run out, she had taken to writing on scraps of papers, envelopes, and coupons, and then placing these within the folds located at the back of the planner. She hadn't been exceptionally neat about the organization of it all (something Mikami had found unsightly, even at his young age), but she _had_ been thorough at marking the date in neat, italic script at the top left-hand corner and centering her entry.

One day his mother decided to go to the stationary store.

Mikami could still recall the excited look on his mother's face as she told him, "Teru, my boss gave me a raise this month! Since I have some money left over, I'm going to get myself an actual diary. That way I have something to write in every day instead of once in a while! Isn't that exciting?" He, of course, had only nodded with mild interest and enthusiasm. Teru had tried his best not to let the fact that his mother was overlooking his need of a new glasses case and belt to fulfill her personal needs get to him—but it had been terribly, terribly difficult. So he had watched her leave with a faraway expression on his face, neglecting to even say goodbye to her as she walked out the door.

His mother never returned home.

It had been the ambulance and police sirens that had alerted Teru to the scene of the accident. He had asked around a bit and learned that a car had recklessly crashed into a light post, killing the driver and three passengers, along with one bystander—_his mother_. The sight of his mother's mangled body hadn't registered at first; Teru had merely stared at the shards of glass and streaks of crimson numbly, at a complete loss for words. Then four bodies were tugged out of the wrecked red vehicle. Teru had recognized them as being the bodies of four bullies from his school—four of the bullies who had bullied _him_. The police had allowed him to approach his mother's corpse once it had been set on a gurney a little while later. Still incomprehensive of the events of that evening, Teru had only been able to trace his mother's bloody gashes, dark bruises and limp muscles with a dazed gaze—that was, until he realized that she was holding something.

Clutched under his mother's left arm had been a diary.

The journal had doubtlessly been bought from the stationary store. His mother had probably been coming home from her trip when she had been caught between the collision…and then _killed_. The head officer had asked Teru if he wanted the journal, but he had declined, instead retreating to the apartment alone and with a heavy heart. And upon arrival, Teru had pulled his mother's makeshift journal out from her desk drawer and promptly burned it in the fireplace. He hadn't thought of reading it, and as he watched the flames hungrily envelop its burgundy exterior and then char the contents held inside, Teru came to another conclusion:

He didn't regret burning the journal either.

The years that followed turned Mikami into a disciple of justice. He went on to a university, then law school, and finally became a prosecuting attorney at the age of twenty-six. Mikami remained detached from others despite the praise he received for his intelligence and righteous ideals, satisfied with keeping things to himself and watching things from afar. However, on one particular occasion, a colleague of Mikami's suggested that he begin writing down what he thought about his accomplishments; they could make "an impressive memoir one day," he had been told. Mikami had responded with a curt nod, going on to tell his fellow attorney that perhaps he would consider the idea.

Contrary to what he had said, he never did consider keeping a journal.

It wasn't because Mikami was incapable of writing down his daily thoughts; it was just because he had never felt the _need_ to. To him it had always sounded like a waste of valuable time (and space, because frankly he did not want his desk drawer as cluttered as his mother's had been) that could be spent on doing something much more productive than simply _writing_. Mikami was content with silently musing to himself during the day instead. Musing, he felt, was far more efficient than writing down something that could one day be read, tampered with, or—God forbid—be used as evidence against you. Not only that, but musing could be done any where and at any time—given that you were skilled at multi-tasking, that is. Yes, Mikami was quite pleased with the efficiency of musing.

Then came the 28th of January 2010.

Mikami was handcuffed and taken into prison for being a suspect in the Kira investigation. After being patted down, stripped, and forced into a pair of black sweatpants and a sweatshirt, Mikami had been thrown into a cell with a man he recognized as being the thief he had helped sentence to prison the year before. The moment his police escort had left, the thief had began taunting him with, "The hell's a lawyer doin' in here? Didja get thrown in for bein' too goody-goody, pretty-boy?" Mikami hadn't even bothered glaring; he had merely sat down on the floor and mused about the amount of disgusting filth he was probably sitting on, apathetic even when the thief had started towards him menacingly. But then one of the other inmates had chosen to respond to the question by saying, "I wouldn't mess with him, man. I hear he's a suspect in the Kira case." That had proved to be enough to pacify the thief's murderous intent and return him to his side of the cell permanently, once again leaving Mikami to his musings.

Three days later, Mikami was put into solitary confinement.

The move had been due to the request of the other convicts (they were well aware of what a Kira disciple was capable of and feared for their safety), along with his uncooperative attitude during his interrogations. Mikami's new cell was even smaller and dirtier than his last one had been with; its rusted iron bars, graffiti-covered walls and strong smell of sweat and vomit were enough to make him curl up into a protective ball in a slightly less filthier corner. Mikami refused to use the toilet unless he absolutely needed to, and even then he went grudgingly. He didn't sleep on the cot, choosing instead to lean back against the wall of his corner and fall into a restless sleep. The three meals he was given each day barely qualified as food, and Mikami ate just enough to keep himself going. As always, most of his time was spent on musing—except now all he could do was reflect on what _was_, what _could have been_, and what _never would be_.

But that all changed on a Sunday.

It was his tenth day of imprisonment, and Mikami was beginning to lose control of himself. His hair was disheveled and his fingernails were cut down to the nub. He chewed on his lower lip until it began bleeding and then spit onto the floor, sickened with the coppery tasting saliva. He threw his glasses onto the floor and trampled on them until the lenses popped out of the broken frame, all the while tugging at his dark hair with such force that clumps of it eventually came out locked in his sweaty grip. He kicked over his tray of food and licked and gnawed at the rusted iron bars, jaw cracking painfully with every movement. And just when he was sure that he had given up, Mikami finally took a step back and looked down at the floor to see a cockroach skitter by his pool of bloody saliva. He crouched down and dipped his finger into the runny substance and tried to write something, but then realized it wasn't dark enough. Mikami searched and found a nail underneath his cot, and then in one fluid motion brought it down the length of his left arm, starting at the wrist. He winced as the blood began seeping out of his slit skin, but the pain eventually subsided into numbness, and he was able to dip his finger into the blood and begin writing.

__

2010.02.07

Mikami perfectly aligned the date to the left, just as his mother used to. He deliberated for a moment, stomach doing a queasy flip as he saw the blood from his arm drip to the floor.

__

I really did care when mother put her needs before mine and got that stupid diary.

A distant voice in his head asked Mikami if he should really be writing such things down in a place like this. (_What ever happened to musing?_)

__

Didn't she care about me? If she hadn't gone, she wouldn't have died.

His head spun and Mikami doubled over from a crouch onto all fours. The back of his neck prickled and his ears burned, and for a moment he had to turn away because he felt the bile rise up to his throat. He spit onto the floor once. Turned back. Dipped his finger into the blood leaking down his arm. Continued writing.

__

If had I went with her, there's a chance I would've died, too. Then I wouldn't be here. I'd be with mother instead.

Mikami turned his head to spit, except this time he gagged. He groaned in a low tone before vomiting, and since he hadn't eaten much for the past nine days, little came out except discolored spit and chewed up pieces of bread. He gasped for air, feeling the blood pool on his arm. But he didn't let himself stop there. Mikami wiped away the saliva trickling down his chin with his sleeve and reapplied the blood to his finger.

__

I'm…scared. Will I ever see mother again?

His vision was becoming hazed, and Mikami had to pull away and close his eyes to try and focus. He tried lifting his hands to rub his eyes, but his left arm refused to move and his right hand was drenched in blood. His heart was pounding in his chest and he could feel the pressure slowly building up on his temples; it was like his head was going to explode. Mikami leaned back down to resume writing when his vision suddenly blackened. He instantly panicked and started blinking about wildly, afraid that he was going blind.

"I…I can't see!" Mikami cried aloud.

He wasn't expecting an answer, and he certainly didn't get one. But his vision did return to him about twenty seconds later—though it was severely blurred and made the words he had written look like mush. When Mikami finally glanced down at his left arm, he was surprised at the amount of blood that was still pouring out from the gash he had made and was leaking onto the floor. It occurred to him then that perhaps his sudden hysteria was a repercussion of cutting himself too deeply. But then again, it couldn't be helped now: it was already too late. Mikami inhaled a long, shaky breath and tried to gather himself.

__

Does mother forgive me for not saying goodbye? Does she still love me? Did she ever love me?  
Or…

Mikami's breathing became ragged and it took all of his strength just to dip his trembling finger into the blood—but that was as far as he got. The pain in his left arm suddenly returned twofold, and he screamed out in agony. Mikami collapsed on top of what he had been laboring to write, his entire body beginning to shudder and twitch violently. He gritted his teeth together and began bashing his head again the floor, trying to knock himself unconscious so that he couldn't feel the pain anymore. His vision blackened again moments later, and this time it didn't come back after twenty seconds. Or forty. Or sixty. A low buzzing started in his ears, and each of his breaths became shorter and shorter until they gradually became desperate chokes for air mixed in with anguished screeches.

With his last breath, Mikami managed to croak a, "M-Mother, I…" before screaming one last time and then fading into nothingness.

His body would be found later that day when an officer came in to give him his evening meal. They would report the death as suicide—that he'd slit his wrist and died from the blood-loss and malnutrition. When they removed his body from the cell and saw the barely legible words scrawled in blood, they would simply say that he had gone insane while imprisoned. They wouldn't know that the words had really been part Mikami Teru's first and only journal entry.

It was an entry that would remain unfinished. Forever.


End file.
